


Reverberate

by dreamhusbands (soup)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Eames-centric (Inception), M/M, Pre-Relationship, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-27 01:56:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18729376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soup/pseuds/dreamhusbands
Summary: “You know, this isn’t what came to mind when you threatened to keep me up all night.”





	Reverberate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queuebird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queuebird/gifts).



> As they say, better late than never. This is me foraying for the first time into the Inception fandom one unbeta’d mess at a time. Geronimo! This was written for Inception Bed Sharing Fest 2019, responding to Q's prompt: **snoring.**

“Shut the fuck up.”

The words are slurred and delivered with a hearty side-serving of knuckles to the ribs. 

* * *

“Eames—” there is a sudden intake of breath, a damp-sounding rasp against the soft fabric of the pillowcase, followed by a defeated exhale—“Shut the fuck up.”

Ten seconds later a pillow lands squarely and painfully across the forger’s face.

* * *

“Arthur...”

It’s imploring, long-suffering, and perhaps even fond—

—but not entreating enough to thwart the assault being wielded upon his person. If anything, Eames finds the addition of feet a little insulting. Mostly, because it’s very effective in getting him to roll onto his side and face the opposite wall.

“You _utter_ bastard,” he grunts, punching his pillow twice before settling down with his back to Arthur. He then pulls on the duvet—hard—without any compunction at the thought of depriving Arthur of his rightful share. Tacit agreements on fair bedding quotas are revoked when one’s bedmate unleashes all four limbs upon the other. Never in his life has Eames been subjected to such cheek.

The side of his thigh throbs as he drops back to sleep.

* * *

“Honestly, mate—” Eames turns his head to squint at Arthur’s profile in the hazy darkness—“I have heard of misery loving company, but I have half a mind of locking you in the bathroom.”

“You’re the one snoring. _You_ go.”

“Interesting proposition. One I shall shut my eyes to,” Eames retorts all too pleasantly, voice thick with sleep, even if the latter is being constantly interrupted.

“The acoustics in there would suck anyway, so just—”

“Yes, darling?”

“Stop breathing,” Arthur finishes, notably deflating at the calibre of his retort.

“I’m afraid that’s an improbable request.”

“It’s becoming a very probable contingency.”

“Why Arthur, dearest, we both know you wouldn’t kill a defenceless man in his sleep. It’s beneath you.”

“You know I would, and _have_. You were there.”

“...”

_Defenceless, as if_. The words are an addendum huffed petulantly into the pillow. Eames hears them all too clearly in the room's stillness. He smiles to himself, chuffed. He is well aware that if he were, in fact, defenceless, Arthur would have wielded far heavier a fist upon his person much sooner. (Not that the earlier kicking wasn’t a tad vicious, mind.) Instead of commending the other’s restraint and munificence, Eames shuts up. (Nor does he challenge Arthur to admit that any retribution on Eames' behalf would be swift should the wrong line be crossed.) He laces his fingers together across his stomach and sighs, his silence acquiescent.

The silence stretches between them, time trickling by. If Eames waits just long enough to feel Arthur relax into the mattress before dramatically filling his lungs, well—

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE! _EAMES!_ ”

“Sorry, darling. Won’t happen again, dear. Honestly, Arthur, I’m dreadfully sorry.”

Sleep deprivation makes Arthur even more susceptible to Eames’ taunts, his feathers too easily ruffled. The responding jab to Eames’ ribs is bruising but does nothing to thwart his poorly disguised laughter at the point man’s ill-contained sullenness. 

On the other hand, the pillow he receives to the face shortly after does the trick. Eames’ amusement dims, and he grunts, pained. He drags his tongue across the puncture wound along his lip, tasting rust.

“Bastard. I’m bleeding.” 

“Great. You can bleed out for all I care.”

Eames presses his lips together and makes a noncommittal sound, eyes closing. It’s not worth getting into it. If either of them keeps pushing, it'll get ugly.

* * *

Eames eases into light sleep, but is too often wakened by the starling sound of his own snoring or Arthur's well-timed and unfriendly jabs. He feels at his wit's end, unpleasantly groggy as his fuse continues to shorten.

Beyond the passing fancies of violence, Arthur’s fidgeting doesn’t help either.

“You’re a menace and a bloody nightmare, Arthur. Honestly.”

The mattress dips as the man in question pushes himself up onto his elbows.

“I didn’t ask for any of this, Eames. And I know you didn’t either, but I’m not the one whose respiratory track sounds like a fucking chainsaw, okay?—” a defeated sigh, the shift of cotton as sheets are pushed back—“You know what? Forget it.”

Eames frowns at the ceiling when Arthur gets up. He hazards a glance towards the alarm clock on the nightstand; the back-lit green display claims it is 2:28AM. Shortly after, the bathroom light stutters on, forcing Eames to turn away and shield his eyes from the onslaught of brightness. He doesn’t reopen them once the door clicks shut.

Infiltrating William Morris Endeavor to extract the list of fighters betting on fixed matches required putting on weight, and doing so has worsened the snoring; it was seldom this bad before. That Arthur is particularly susceptible is no gift, to either of them.

Arthur.

Arthur, who fell into bed three hours ago with a grateful groan like Atlas finally shrugging the weight of the world off his shoulders. Arthur, who despite his impeccable reputation has been running himself into the ground to overcome the misgivings that took root after the Fischer job. Arthur, who made no fuss about having to share his room—his bed—when their employer refused to shoulder the added expenses for an expanding team. Arthur, ever accommodating despite his propensity to tear everyone’s plans apart. Arthur, the best point man in the business, lethal and self-sacrificing, and currently in the shower instead of the bed.

_Arthur_.

* * *

Eames wakes with a start. Consciousness floods, abruptly, and for a terrifying moment he has no idea of where he is. He’s been yanked from a pleasant dream he cannot remember and is swiftly thrust into a reality he can’t immediately comprehend. His totem should be the first thing he reaches for, but he's too disorientated to do so.

“Arth’r?” 

The name barely makes it past the cotton filling his mouth.

The man in question makes a noncommittal sound as he moves quietly around the room. Arthur is backlit by the bathroom light—it spills in from where the door’s has been courteously left ajar to keep the bedroom in relative darkness. The scent of clary sage and almond permeates the air, as does the warmth and humidity preceded by a hot shower.

_Is it morning already? Just how late is it?_

Eames pushes himself up onto his elbows and blinks his surroundings into sharper focus. He casts a bleary-eyed glance towards the alarm clock on the nightstand, squinting against the bathroom light to read the dimmed green numbers.

**2:57AM**

“F’r fuck’s’ke!” Eames falls back into the pillows with a groan. He follows Arthur’s movements through one squinted eye, trying and failing to assess the situation. “The hell, Arthur?”

“Shh. Go back to sleep, Eames.”

Eames heaves a sigh, rubbing viciously at his face before sitting up. He scratches at the side of his neck then checks the time on his watch, the silver hands glint in the soft light and confirm the hotel’s alarm clock. It’s nearly 3AM.

His military background and extensive experience in dreamshare favour Eames with the skill to make sense of the dissonance long before the sleep fog clears. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s experienced an abrupt, rude awakening at this hour, though few are the occasions in which he finds himself being humoured about it. The shower-dress dance Arthur’s partaken in is indicative of _things to do_ and _places to be_ , which is at odds with the suggestion he simply _go back to sleep_. Eames trusts Arthur to keep him in the loop if the job has gone tits up and they’re due for a hasty escape; he expects fair warning but no such warning follows. That means that there is no threat, and in the absence of a threat whatever Arthur is up about can’t be terribly urgent. It makes the forger inexorably curious.

“Arthur, what’s going on?”

“Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

Having clipped his sock garters, Arthur pushes himself out of the armchair and reaches for the woollen trousers hanging over the armrest. He casts a brief glance in the bed’s general direction before returning his attention to the task at hand. “Seriously, this doesn’t concern you. Sleep.”

“Well I'm up and it’s three in the bloody morning, Arthur. What _are_ you doing?”

Eames rakes his fingers through his hair and straightens his spine, scooting flush against the headboard. It's not comfortable, but it makes it easier to track the other's movements. He admires Arthur’s muscled thighs, watching them disappear into soft-looking trousers, and wishes the process were happening in reverse. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s watched the point man dress (or undress), but like this, bathed in soft light and silhouetted by dark shadows, Arthur’s a wonder to watch. Eames does watch, furtively but intently; never had the pleasure to openly do so before.

Yet the sartorial show isn’t enough to soothe Eames' frayed nerves. He feels mowed over and not particularly patient in the face of Arthur’s tightlipped sullenness. At three in the morning there’s no need for him to partake in this exercise of insanity, but sleep continues to evade him and he is left without much choice: to watch from the sidelines an unwilling participant. Now, curiosity aflame, the forger feels his patience thinning.

“ _Arthur._ ”

“There’s something I forgot to check up on earlier.”

“It can’t wait until a reasonable hour?”

“No, I’ve got calls to make—” Arthur glances up as he smooths the creases of his tucked-in shirt—“There are time differences to consider and things I need to double check.”

Arthur is lying through his teeth. His tells, which are usually inscrutable, are now on full display. The point man is going through the motions as he normally would, but Eames is good at looking past rippling surfaces and into the muddy waters. If anything, annoyance heightens Eames’ fight and flight response, and the slightest of incongruences hooks his attention. The light spilling out from the bathroom reveals Arthur's tired scowl and overall heavy-handedness to his movements. The point man is tired and displeased, and is putting on whatever show he can to excuse his hasty retreat.

“ _Arthur._ ”

Pulling a jumper over his head, Arthur makes a noncommittal sound. The point man is infuriating single-minded once he's set himself up to do something. Eames narrows his eyes, displeased by the other's obvious attempt to escape the situation, but keeps his tone light when he speaks, feeling responsible for being the reason Arthur is up at all.

“Darling, come back to bed.”

Arthur briefly stutters in his movements, but Eames can't make sense of why. Arthur doesn't look eager to comply, and remains an enigma wrapped in tailored wool and cotton regardless of whether or not sleep-deprivation gives away his tells. Eames scrubs at his face, frustrated. He wills away the irritation and dirty thoughts warring for his attention and mixing like oil and water. (Most notably, he tamps down on his desire to bodily corner Arthur back to bed and remove those ridiculous layers. He fantasises of putting Arthur in such a state that the snoring won’t bother him again. He promptly shuts down that train of thought.) Eames groans, grimacing as his mouth feels dry. A glass of water wouldn’t go amiss now that he’s awake. _In for a penny, in for a pound, and all that._

Pushing the bedding aside, the forger hoists himself out of bed with another groan. The floor is cool beneath his feet, the chill both jarring and grounding. He takes a moment to curl his toes into the carpet and stretch his arms overhead in a bastardised sun salutation. His spine cracks in three places, leaving a pleasant thrum as he steps around the bed. He scratches his belly through the soft sleep shirt, displeased with his digestive track's reaction to being jerked about. Improper sleeps leads to all manner of complications.

“What are you doing?”

The curtness of the question startles him, lips smacking shut. He glances between Arthur and the bathroom door, and finds himself on a collision course with Arthur.

“For a slash, a’right?” Eames snaps, matching Arthur’s testy tone.

“Oh... Okay, yeah,” Arthur relents, stepping aside. He rakes a hand through the bird’s nest atop his head and scowls at his socked feet. (The sight tugs at something in Eames’ chest. It's like a live grenade goes off, a sudden wave of warmth flooding Eames at his core, blindsiding him. Not even Arthur’s attempt at a cool recovery can tamper the wave of heat. The downturn of Arthur’s plush mouth remains so kissable, and Eames has to remain non-verbal when he responds to Arthur’s added _“—make it quick then.”_ Part of him yearns to suck the bitterness straight from its source, stopping any venom from spilling from Arthur's sleep-loosened lips.)

Eames doesn’t know why they're both lying about such trivial things. He doesn’t need to pee, but relieving his bladder should be easy enough once he’s had a glass or three of water. Whatever Arthur needs to do, it can wait. It's not as if he actually _has_ anywhere else to be. So Eames locks the door after himself, realising that this impromptu jaunt could sow far greater rewards. _Let Arthur wait it out,_ he thinks, in need of space and feeling a little vindictive. If it weren’t for Arthur’s fastidiousness Eames would not be up at all having these contrary feelings: irritation and desire he cannot act upon.

* * *

Eames purposely lingers in the bathroom longer than is strictly necessary. At the fifteen minute mark he answers Arthur’s impatient knock with another fib: _sorry mate unpleasant surprise_ , followed by _shouldn’t have had the carbonara_ and _no, I’m quite alright, just give us a minute will you, love?_ He chuckles to himself at Arthur’s muttering, intelligible through the heavy door.

Since, Eames has clipped his toenails, taken a long shower, had a lazy wank in said shower (thinking of pouting lips and messy curls), and begun rearranging the contents of Arthur’s toiletries bag. He’s only a bit disappointed Arthur’s not checked in on him again or, better yet, barged in to join him.

_Posh git_ , Eames tells himself, rubbing the fancy moisturiser into his forehead before making for the door. If he is going to face Arthur’s simmering anger he may as well do so feeling refreshed, pleasantly boneless, and properly moisturised.

It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust once he’s turned off the bathroom light. He falters at the threshold, confused by the all-encompassing darkness that greets him.

The alarm clock on the nightstand glows bright and green.

3:41AM

_That long? Really?_

It’s no wonder then that the room is quiet. Arthur didn’t insist after Eames’ initial excuse, having probably lost patience and left without completing whatever it was he’d been so intent upon half an hour ago. It isn’t far-fetched to presume Arthur has a back-up kit for such situations considering how rare it is to see him with a hair out of place. He’d never leave for work, or the hotel for that matter, with that bird’s nest of a mane. Eames is simply put off he didn’t consider this potential outcome; he was looking forward to Arthur’s anger, having banked on impatience or exhaustion getting the better of the sullen point man. The thought of that downturned mouth and crown of untamed curls turns Eames’ disappointed scowl into a rueful smile, one which twitches at the sight of a lump on the bed.

“Arthur?”

The response is a noncommittal grunt which most definitely sources from the lump. As Eames’ nears the bedside to make sense of the lump, ascertaining it is indeed Arthur, his smile widens. That is most definitely not a comfortable position to be sleeping in, but it’s a far better outcome than the one he’d come to accept moments ago.

“You sleeping, poppet?”

Another grunt confirms as much, and Eames rounds the bed back to his side feeling uncharacteristically giddy.

* * *

The pillow is pleasantly cool against Eames’ cheek. He settles on his side in hopes of preempting the snoring, unwilling to disrupt the quiet that’s settled, and yawns—jack cracking—into the scratchy cotton, blinks sleep from his eyes as they continue to adjust to darkness. Tucking his arm under the pillow Eames focuses on the green halo cast by the alarm clock against the back of Arthur’s haywire mane.

Eames suppresses the urge to touch, unwilling to offer his wrist like a lamb for slaughter. Even asleep there’s no denying how sharp the point man’s reflexes will be. (The abuse already suffered has revealed how easily Arthur resorts to violence when half-asleep, and how bloody strong he is in spite of the drool on his chin or the pillow creases on his cheek.)

“You know—” there’s the distinct sound of skin moving against cotton as Arthur burrows further into his own pillow— “This isn’t what came to mind when you threatened to keep me up all night.”

“Oh?”

Arthur hums wordlessly, tone affirming. He shows no inclination of expounding further on the matter. None at all as he empties his lung with one drawn out exhale. Soon, the gentle ebb and flow of Arthur’s breathing fills the space between them. Eames watches on, annoyance, disappointment and confusion warring with fondness and relief. He fights the droop of heavy lids and wills his tired brain to make sense of Arthur’s curious statement.

In the end Eames doesn’t even remember falling asleep. 

* * *

“Seriously?”

Arthur sounds wretched when he rolls onto his side to face him. Eames hums as the mattress dips, distantly aware that he’s flat on his back once again. He’s barely awake, but sufficiently so to hear the rasp of his next inhale. It’s a horrid sound. He groans, frustrated as much with himself as he is with their inexorable situation. Blessedly, there are no fists or kicks or pillows flying at him this time, and so he rolls onto his side without prompting, turning his back to Arthur and willing them both to fall back asleep. It’s easy enough without a good kick. 

* * *

“Eames,” Arthur says.  
The warning tone bleeds through the softness of the slurred vowels.

Eames lets out a heavy sigh in response, refusing to open his eyes or engage in fisticuffs—verbal or other. Truth is he’s absolutely knackered and has done as much as he can with what little is at his disposal. If he’s still snoring again despite his best intentions, then he has no viable solutions to their problem. He rolls onto his side once again, ignoring the twinge in his neck as he attempts to plump the pillow up. The breadth of his shoulders is ill-suited for this sleeping position, which is no doubt why he keeps rolling onto his back.

“Don’t read into this.” A solid line of warmth presses along his back. “It’s purely strategic,” Arthur says, oddly tentative. His breath is hot across Eames’ nape. No other explanation follows as something slides across his waist and settles heavily over his ribs. Eames wonders whether Arthur is aware of his fingers seeking bare skin beneath Eames’ rucked up sleep-shirt. 

“Is that so, darling?”

Eames tests this unexpected loosening of boundaries by leaning some of his weight backwards. He is content to navigate this laminal space as if he were half caught in a dream then claim plausible deniability in the morning. He continues to lean back until he’s propped up against Arthur's surprisingly solid chest. In return, he feels a clothed leg slide between his knees, and through the soft material of Arthur’s trousers Eames can feel corded muscle. It sends a thrill down his spine.

“Strategy you say?” he prompts.

“I did, yeah.”

A shiver courses down his body with Arthur’s breath hot against his nape. It occurs to the forger then, _very distantly that is_ , that this isn’t a good idea. In fact, it’s a terrible idea. He feels himself tense, nearing full wakefulness.

“Feel free to explain yourself,” Eames prompts, noticeably tense.

Arthur doesn’t respond as he withdraws his hand from Eames’ stomach. Eames catches his wrist before he can withdraw his arm altogether. He doesn’t allow his fingers to thread over Arthur’s knuckles, unwilling to encourage something they’ll regret. Eames wants more than stolen moments in the dark but he doesn’t know what Arthur wants. Eames realises he’s never known.

By now they are both too aware of each other and the situation to claim being half-asleep. Eames can feel the strain of Arthur’s muscles, the anxiety rippling through them both.

“It’ll be easier to knee you in the balls if you snore.” The pragmatism is forced. Exhaustion does nothing for the point man’s subterfuge Eames realises. Whatever this is it’s as honest as Arthur’s been in... well, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t dare push for clarification. He’s in too vulnerable a position to default to his habitual defence mechanism, but looking for answers he might not want to hear, well...

Instead, enveloped in warmth and the familiar scent of clary sage, Eames relaxes his hackles and guides Arthur’s hand back onto his body. He presses it to his solar plexus, feeling some of the tension leave both their bodies as Arthur acquiesces, flattening his palm. Hand over the heart is far more intimate than his bared belly. Eames exhales, replaying Arthur’s words in his head: _This isn’t what came to mind when you threatened to keep me up all night_. It’s neither the time nor place to seek the inception of such a thought, but Eames cannot help but feel wrong-footed to not have noticed the reciprocity sooner. 

“I only snore on my back, darling. There shouldn’t be any need for kneeing _anything_ ,” Eames says. Exhaustion draws out his vowels and muting the consonants, a yawn deforming the last three words. Whatever Arthur responds with gets lost in the stretch between wakefulness and sleep.

* * *

Too soon, sunlight slips through the heavy curtains, bathing the room in a soft jovial hue of yellow. In the hallway outside an early riser slams their door shut, their carpet-muted steps followed by the rattle of carry-on luggage. From here Eames can tell that it’s overpacked and off-balance, likely a well-worn but valuable piece retained despite it’s faults. Impractical. _Sentimental._

“You know,” Eames mumbles when he feels Arthur shift in his arms. He presses his nose to the warm spot behind Arthur’s ear, “You snore, love.”

“I do _not_.”

An indignant half-asleep Arthur is unbelievably endearing. Eames hums agreeably, thoroughly charmed, then scoots closer and presses his lips over the shell of Arthur’s ear to whisper conspiratorially, “No, I suppose not—” he smiles privately, tightening his hold— “S’more snuffling than snoring, really.”

Eames lets out a quiet laugh at the physical manifestation of Arthur’s indignation. Of course Arthur’d find _that_ a far worse insult than being a snorer. The triumph Eames feels from correctly anticipating that reaction chips away at his vexation—vexation for not contemplating the possibility of _them_ sooner. Arthur yields, leaning back into Eames’ chest, and the forger is forced to renounce his doubts. He gives Arthur’s pliant form a squeeze, choosing not questioning how it came about or grieving for what oversight has already cost him. He hums contently, soft curls tickling his nose.

“We’ll miss breakfast,” Arthur warns. He makes no attempt to move, his words muffled by the pillow.

Another door is slammed shut, closer this time, and it forces upon Eames the world that exists beyond the solid weight pressed into his chest. Relieving distracted businessmen and tourists of their valuables over continental breakfast is what usually makes these impersonal hotels bearable, but there’s something far more alluring right here. Eames wants to burrow into that warmth and sleep for days, still reeling from a pitiful night’s sleep. Moulding himself closer to Arthur’s back, he grunts. “No, bugger that, not hungry.”

Eames thinks that’s that. His arm goes numb though, so he rearranges his hold on Arthur only to notice (belatedly) that it isn’t all warm skin he’s pressed up against. Arthur is fully dressed. Thrown for a loop, Eames leans back to squint at the crinkled collar of Arthur’s shirt. “Huh?”

“I asked whether your stomach’s still giving you trouble?”

“I—” Eames snaps his mouth shut as the dam breaks and floods his mind with the memory of that godawful bout of wakefulness they had in the middle of the night. No wonder he’s knackered. In his mind’s eye he sees Arthur dressing in the bathroom light, remembers the slant of his mouth, his intent to leave... Eames strokes the front of Arthur’s rumpled jumper, distracted with remembering the lies he weaved just hours ago. He remembers Arthur’s hand on his stomach, a leg hooking around his, bodies pressed close together and half-hearted taunts borne of irritation between them.

“No,” he whispers, leaning back in, hands tucking under Arthur’s rumpled clothes. The thought of further dishevelling him makes Eames dizzy with want, rousing the rest of his body as he presses solidly into Arthur’s back. One of his hands veers south to tuck tease open Arthur’s trousers, voice dropping an octave.

“Not at all. Simply a matter of working up an appetite, get the blood pumping... Believe you had a few thoughts last night about that, no?”


End file.
